The Thing About Fathers
by BaldiDaughterChevy
Summary: John may be Sam's father, but Dean will always be Sam's dad.


**"Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad."**

 **~Unknown**

 **Pre season 1 fic, kind of in honor of Father's Day, because Dean always is and always will be, the perfect dad for Sam.**

 **This started as a snippet and expanded into a longer story.**

 **It's a bit more complicated than the things I usually write, and there's even a minor action scene in it which I hope I didn't screw up too badly. I'm not used to writing intense scenes with a lot of different people and things to keep track of. Let me know how I did on that.**

 **For ages I'm thinking Sam is 15, so that makes Dean 19.**

 **Dean's POV. First person.**

 **I'm not supremely confident on this, so I hope you enjoy it.**

We drive the last 20 miles in chilling silence. When Dad and Sam argue like this, the mood gets so cold, I could swear I feel ice form on the walls.

I try to turn the radio on a couple times to break the tension. The first time, Dad turns it off, the second time I reach for the dial, he gives me a look and I don't finish the motion.

I hate these arguments between Dad and Sam. I hate them so much. I'm always stuck in the middle and I feel like I have to fix it all somehow, but the thing is, I can see both sides of the argument.

Sammy needs new shoes anyway-his are pinching his feet so bad he's got blisters on his toes and he's worn a hole through the top of the canvas.

Sure he doesn't *need* Nike AirMax tennis shoes but I didn't *need* a lot of things I really wanted at his age. I mean, I didn't get any of them either, but that's beside the point. I want better for Sam.

But Dad is also right, though.

It seems stupid to buy $100 shoes for Sam when he's growing so fast that by the end of the year he'll probably just need another pair.

I spend the whole trip thinking about who's side I'm on, and eventually come to the conclusion that I'll just have to take matters into my own hands. As usual.

We pull into the motel parking lot, and Sam is still sulking in the backseat while Dad and I unload the bags. I eye him warningly, trying to get him to come help before Dad gets even more pissed. Sam's poking the bear and he's gonna get bitten in the ass any time now.

"Sam." Here it comes. Dad's eyes have that molten-iron glint to them as he opens the side door of the Impala and leans down to glare at my little brother.

"If I were you, I'd get out here and help us with these bags, son."

Sam might be angry but he's not suicidal. He gets out, boiling with rage and slams the door, grabbing a duffel bag out of the trunk and muttering something too faint for me or Dad to hear.

"Guess who's doing a hundred push ups and going to bed without supper tonight? You are, Sam." Dad throws a cruel smile at Sam and heads into the hotel.

"Why did you have to do that, Sam? Why did you have to get him all riled-up like that? God, you know just how to push his buttons, don't you?"

My brother scoffs and stands there, his shoulders heaving as he fights with his fury.

"You know what, Dean? Who even cares about him anymore? I just asked for $20 to buy new shoes, I *have* the rest that I earned myself. How can he say no? How can he tell me anything? He's never even around. I mean, I can tell he just thinks...he thinks...I'm not worth anything. Not even $20."

Sam breaks off with that tight huff to his voice that tells me he's on the verge of tears, and then throws the duffel over his shoulder, and stalks into the motel.

I follow him inside and wearily set my bags down by the door.

Sam throws his burden down a bit harder than he has to and something clatters loudly inside the bag. I pray it didn't break.

Dad's sitting on one of the bed's, writing in his journal and he doesn't look up at the racket.

"Sam sleeps on the floor tonight." He says calmly.

I think my little brother is gonna lose it then. He's breathing so hard it's audible across the room and staring at Dad with a look like he wants to rip out his organs, and he probably would if he could.

I stand, motionless, waiting for the storm to hit. I'm surprised when Sam just goes into the bathroom without a word, not even slamming the door. Maybe he's got more sense than I give him credit for.

A couple minutes later, I hear the creak of pipes and the shower turns on.

"Dad." I say quietly once I'm sure we won't be overheard. "Maybe we can afford to get Sam those shoes? I mean have you seen what he's wearing?" I know for a fact he's gotten teased about them at every school he's been to for the last 6 months. He's got holes in them so big they're practically sandals at this point." I laugh, nervously, but Dad just grunts and shakes his head.

"I'm done talking about this. His whole attitude needs to change before he deserves anything like that. I don't know what's wrong with that kid, anyways. You never had anything like that, you never asked for it."

I know he's partly right, but I can't stand the thought of Sam never having anything nice. And he's been telling me about these particular shoes for weeks. They're waterproof, and lightweight, and shock-absorbent, and they've got some kind of patented, cooling-core that's suppose to keep your feet dry, even in the summer. I know all about them, I could practically sell them after all I've heard.

Dad leaves to get take-out before Sam gets out of the shower and I dig through my backpack when he's gone.

I find a half-eaten pack of beef jerky and a slightly crunched looking bag of Dorito's and set them on the table for Sam.

"Eat fast, Sammy. Dad will be back any minute." I nod to the bags as Sam walks into the room, toweling off his shaggy hair, but still looking sullen.

Sam is too hungry to object, even though I can tell he wants to. He finishes up both bags of snacks in a few minutes.

Dad comes back within the hour, bringing burgers for him and me.

He eats his supper while Sam does his assigned push ups, keeping close count, making sure Sam does the full 100.

When he's done, Sam grabs an old shirt out of his bag and lays down on the floor beside my bed, bunching the shirt up under his head to use for a makeshift pillow.

I clean our weapons, and dad writes more in his journal, while Sam lays on his side on the floor, staring at the wall.

We finish our tasks in silence and, eventually, we both go to bed.

There hasn't been any sound from Sam's side of the floor for the last two hours, but I know he's not sleeping.

"Hey. Sam." I whisper once the light is off. I hand him my pillow and he takes it wordlessly. I pull the thin comforter off my bed and drape it over him too, taking care to fluff it up so that it covers his whole body, long legs to chin.

There's an extended pause and I think he's finally fallen asleep, and then I hear him whisper, "Thanks."

In the week that follows I try to find any job I can. I need to earn money fast so that I can buy shoes for Sam.

There's a shocking lack of 'help wanted' signs in the town we're in, and, everywhere I ask, I get a closed door.

It seems like most of these places are fully stocked with sweepers, dish-washers, trash-collectors, and window-cleaners. Everyone's got some cousin or nephew or other who does that for them. But I think it's more that this is a small town, and no one trusts a strange kid looking for gigs with no real work history.

In between, I'm helping dad track down leads on a possible vamp nest that's reportedly causing problems in the area, and Sam's taking online courses to keep up with his school. Dad doesn't feel like we'll be here long enough to enroll him in classes.

After days spent monster hunting, and nights spent job hunting, I've just about given up hope, when I go into town for supplies one evening.

I'm heading down the sidewalk, towards the local convenient store, and I see him on the other side-the perfect mark walking coolly along the street. He's the kind of guy that sticks out like a bruise in this Podunk town. He's wearing khakis, boats shoes, and a pink polo, and he's got this expensive-looking haircut. I can tell he's a city boy with a small brain and a big wallet full of cash from a bank account probably stashed with trust fund money.

I hate the thought of stealing, even if it's from this douchey frat-boy, but I'm desperate. I feel like I've run out of options, and this option is literally coming straight at me.

From my place across the street I can see the bulge in his back, left pocket, and I easily make my plan.

It's not my first time stealing to survive, and even though this isn't a life or death scenario, I have to take the chance-for Sam.

I take a quick shortcut through an alley and get ahead of him, then I start walking towards him, going in the opposite direction.

Just as we're about to pass, I bump into him lightly and slip my hand in his back pocket while he's distracted by my feigned clumsiness.

"Oh, sorry man." I grab him by the shoulder and transfer his wallet to my off hand, behind his back in one smooth motion, slipping it down into my own pocket. He stops, and I try to keep moving, but he catches a glimpse of my face-cold, blue eyes meeting mine. There's a half-formulated spark of suspicion in his gaze.

I get away from there as quickly as possible, huffing it back to the motel, heart pounding with adrenaline.

Dad's out, but I know Sam's inside studying and I can't let him see what I've done so I dash behind the motel and sift through my haul.

The wallet has about $200 in it, which isn't a lot, considering how affluent the guy had appeared.

Not that much cash but it's enough.

I pocket the wallet and head inside, already making plans for how I'm gonna buy Sam's shoes.

There's a mall a county over, and I will slip out on my next afternoon away from Dad and catch a bus.

It works out perfectly.

The next day Dad leaves to go investigate another lead, leaving me at home to do research.

Sam's busy doing online classes, and he barely hears me when I tell him I'm going out to meet dad.

I catch the bus and go to the Westfield Shopping Center, about 15 miles away.

The man at the Foot Locker compliments my good taste, as he wraps up a pair of Nike AirMax waterproof, athletic running shoes.

They're dark-blue and black, and have a silver, Nike swoosh, and they just look and smell like pure quality.

I can practically see Sammy's face when he opens the box, I swell with pride at the thought of seeing my little brother in those fancy, expensive, not pre-worn shoes.

I think of him walking down the halls at whatever school he's currently attending and feeling like he's one of the cool kids, simply because he's got the right footwear. Finally feeling like he's not a walking poster for Goodwill and his older brother's cast offs.

I carry my bag through the mall as I head outside and these thoughts make my steps feel lighter than they have in so many months.

The bus on the ride home is full of the usual passengers which mostly includes kids with headphones and blank expressions, and old people who can no longer drive on their own.

I'm sitting in my seat, trying not to make eye contact when we make our first stop.

There's a few people getting off and two getting on.

The first is a middle-aged woman, with big hair, a quilted bag, and cat hair all over her flowing, green dress.

The second passenger's face is hidden from me but when he steps up to pay his fare, he looks directly at me, and my heart drops into my toes.

It's Mr. Phi Beta Kappa himself. He's wearing that same, dumbass, pink shirt from the day before. It's so tight around his spray-tan biceps, that it's cutting in, leaving an impression in his skin.

He finishes paying the driver and comes directly over to my seat. I'm seated by the window and he slides into the place next to mine.

I start to get up as quickly as I can, when I feel the cold barrel of a gun pressed into my side.

"Don't say a word," he says casually, staring straight ahead while he speaks.

My mind is racing as I try to think of ways to reach one of the many weapons I have stashed on my person. I could steal the gun back from him, but not without getting shot, or risking the lives of the other people on the bus.

"We're gonna get out at the next stop and you're gonna go where I tell you." He says quietly but loud enough for me to hear.

The bus drives on for what seems like forever, and my mind is coming up blank so I sit, motionless, heart pounding into my throat.

When we stop about 5 minutes later, the driver opens the doors and my son-of-a-bitch captor, backs out of his seat, keeping the gun nestled in my side as we edge towards the exit.

He walks me into the alley and suddenly I'm surrounded by 4 tall, well-muscled guys that look like they've all been named champion of their Yale boxing team.

"These are my friends." The man says."Where I go, they go. You should try to cover your tracks better," he sneers, "I got suspicious when you bumped me and it was no problem finding out all about the kid in the leather jacket who's been all over town asking for work." He's circling me like a lion ready to pounce, and I'm trying to find an ending to this that doesn't involve bleeding to death, internally, behind a dumpster.

"So I found out you were staying at the motel and we just kept an eye on you. Easy peasy. You like to take things that aren't yours, huh? We don't appreciate being hoodwinked by some kind of white-trash, pig-fucker, scum like you."

"Actually hogs aren't really my thing. That's why I've never screwed any of your mothers." I'm yelling at myself that this isn't the time for false bravado, but my mouth seems to be moving independently of my brain.

The effect of my speech is immediate and I'm pinned against the wall by Mr. Pink Shirt himself.

"You wanna say that again, genius?" He's breathing in my face and he smells like alcohol and cigarettes.

"I'm sorry." I gasp. "Is your hearing as underdeveloped as your brain?"

He's squeezing me by the throat now and I'm almost glad, because I can't say anything else stupid.

"Yeah, let's see how cocky you are when I break every goddamn bone in your body. Elliot, hold him for me."

One of his buddies steps up and takes over for him. It happens fast and I'm being held back by two other guys, one on each side, while Pink Shirt pummels me over and over again like I'm his favorite punching bag.

He's kicking me and beating me, face, stomach, shins, screaming out in pain.

I feel my bones bruise and my skin crack with the relentless punishment of his fists.

Finally, I manage to get my knee up and send a ball-crunching shot to his groin. The pampered, little fucker twists in on himself in shock and agony.

His lackeys freeze, momentarily, and I take advantage of my opening and wrestle free.

I land a well-placed blow directly in the teeth of the man to my left, while I wrench out of the other one's grasp.

I draw my pistol from behind my back and hold it against the throat of the Pink Shirt called 'Elliot'.

Every other man in the alley, besides Pink Shirt and my hostage, suddenly has a gun pointed at me.

"Drop your weapons." I shout out, my voice sounds rough and shaky, but they slowly lower their guns.

I walk a few steps, keeping my pistol pressed against the frat boy's jaw, and then back away, gun still trained on my hostage.

The men take off after me as I lower my gun, and quickly turn tail and run away.

They holster their guns as I get too far out of range for a clear shot, and take off after me.

"Get him!" I hear Pink Shirt scream, still curled up on the pavement as I disappear.

My bruised, broken, body is running on sheer adrenaline, and I take off down the street.

I turn the corner, outrunning the men, and dash up the covered stairs of some shoddy apartment.

A few minutes later I hear the thundering feet of the Ivy League guys as they charge, full-tilt, past my hiding place.

I choke for breath and sink down in the shadow of the stairs, nearly crying out in pain as my hand comes in contact with my traumatized nose.

I sit in the dark, silence for a long time. Every sound setting my teeth on edge as I imagine I've been found again.

After at least an hour, I scrape myself off the stair and haul my way back to the bus stop.

I ride back to the station and walk, bleeding and broken, up to the shocked-looking man at the Lost and Found counter.

"Did anyone turn in a Foot Locker bag from the afternoon train?" I ask and the guy doesn't take his eyes off me as he reaches under the counter.

I nearly sob with relief when he pulls the bag out and I find Sam's shoes neatly tucked away, untouched and undamaged.

I catch the bus back to the motel, and it's much later than I intended. I stop off at the Impala in the parking lot before going in and write a note on a pad of paper that has 'Trout Tavern Motel' printed across it-a keepsake from some former dive.

"To Sam," I write with a shaky hand. Then I add, "because you're worth it."

I leave the bag with the note inside in the back seat, and limp back in.

Dad is out for the evening, probably drinking himself senseless in the local bar, and hasn't even noticed my absence. But Sam has. When I get inside I try not to look at Sam, but it's impossible. He's sitting at the table and he jumps up as the door open.

"Oh my god, Dean! What happened to you? Where were you? I Had to lie to dad for you. I told him you had a job. Was it the vampires."

I nod because Sam supplied the lie and it's easy. "Dammit!" Sam curses. "I hope you ganked all those sons-a-bitches."

I try to say that I'm fine but I'm so tired and sore at this point that I practically fall onto my bed, not even bothering to shower or change.

"I'll clean you up, Dean. Fucking vamps." Sam goes to get the medical bag and I hear the water running in the bathroom.

"Sit up, Dean." Sam orders, and I'm too tired to resist, so I sit up on the edge of the bed.

Sam has a warm washcloth and he gently washes the blood and grit off my swollen face.

"Ouch!" I gasp in pain as he runs the cloth over my damaged nose.

"I think your nose might be broken." Sam says, calmly. "I'll have to set it."

I feel a pang at the thought that Sam is so used to this.

"Here, blow." Sam hands me some tissues and I hold them gingerly to my tender nose, blowing out clots of blood.

I set my tissue aside after a moment, and Sam crouches in front of me.

"Breath out." He commands, and he puts his hands against my face and slowly drags them down towards my chin.

I feel my nasal bones realign with a scrape and crack, and suddenly, I'm dizzy from the pain.

"There." Sam says. "Dean! Whoa, whoa! Steady." He catches me by the arm before I slide off, and then helps me settle back against the headboard.

"Dammit, Dean." He repeats those monsters really did a number on you. "I should have been with you." He looks so guilty zero I rush to reassure him.

"It happened fast, Sam. I didn't even see the guy...vampire...coming."

Sam looks at me for awhile, his eyes slightly narrowed. "Where's dad?" He asks suddenly.

"He missed this one."

"He wasn't with you?" Sam is suddenly outraged and looks as frightening as he can, for being a skinny, gangly, 15 year-old.

"I told you, Sam, it happened fast."

Sam still looks suspicious but he gets up and gets some ice from the cooler, and wraps it in the washcloth. "Here." He hands it to me and I press it lightly against my nose, the cool instantly soothing my inflamed skin.

Sam helps me get settled, making sure I'm comfortable, and I marvel at his easy confidence. Sometimes I forget that Sam has been patching me and dad up for years after hunts. He's as proficient as an army medic at this point.

I settle back into bed, tired to the point of exhaustion, and I fall asleep even before Sam comes back to check on me.

I'm lucky that Dad and Sam still aren't talking, because my secret manages to stay a secret until the following evening, when dad announces that it's time to move on.

We load everything into the Impala while dad checks out and pays the bill.

I usually call shotgun, but today I slide in beside Sam, eager to see his reaction to the shoes.

He sits down and gets settled, an involved process for Sam that requires just the right positioning of his growing legs to allow him to read comfortably from the huge novel he's toting.

"What..." he bumps into the bag on the floor and reaches down to move it. He freezes when he sees the Nike box. He looks up at me with his huge, hazel-green eyes and the pain of my back-alley beating feels far away and totally worth it.

"Dean...what did you do?" Sam's just staring at the bag, not moving.

"What are you talking about, Sam? You got a package or something?" I keep a straight face.

"Dean." Sam reaches into the bag and pulls out the note, he reads it and I think I see him start to tear up a little bit.

"I know this was you. It's your handwriting." Sam chokes out.

"Sam, Dad and I have almost identical handwriting. It was probably Dad." I won't admit it that easy.

"Aren't you gonna see what's in there? It might just be shoelaces for all you know." I smirk at Sam and he rolls his eyes.

He opens the box slowly, and takes out the shoes, holding them like they're glass-slippers, and might shatter at the slightest bump.

"They're beautiful." He says breathlessly, and the look on his face is all the thanks I'll ever need.

"Dad didn't do this." He repeats it more firmly, and all at once he sets down the shoes and he's got his arms wrapped me.

"Oof!" I exclaim as his already over-sized body crashes into my bruised ribs.

"Oh my god! I'm sorry! I hurt you!" He sits back, realizing what he's done.

"It's ok, Sam, I don't mind." I say it quietly and more intensely than I mean to. I never mind. I would get hurt a lot worse than this if it could make my little brother happy.

He dries his face with a sleeve and looks out the window for a minute to get his emotions back under control.

"Thanks, Dean." He mutters, and this time I don't correct him.

When Dad gets back in the car we're both sitting side by side.

Sam can't seem to stop smiling, and his new shoes are on the seat beside him.

Dad glances into the rear view mirror. His eyes fall on the brand-new shoes next to Sam, then drift over to my bruised and broken face.

He looks like he wants to say something but he catches my eye and there must be a desperation in my pleading gaze that appeals to his better nature, because he doesn't say a word, simply shakes his head, fires up the car and drives off into the sunset.

~end

 **Well I hope you enjoyed it. It felt like it was hard to write for some reason. Like I was sort of ad-libbing the whole thing, without any real clear idea or plan.**

 **Please tell me what you honestly thought.**

 **I deeply apologize for grammar.**


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